Devotion
by jeffthemermaid
Summary: Slaves in Wanheda's Palace. AU much like Ancient Egypt/Greece. Smut.
1. Chapter 1

"What about this one? He's strong, good teeth, pretty face. All kinds of useful." Their captor called into the milling crowd, gripping Murphy's jaw roughly and turning him in the direction of some noble women. They fluttered their fans, sizing him up, eyes calculating, their expressions of polite interest.

There were a lot of people at their stall, inspecting them like pieces of meat at a butchery. Bellamy and Murphy were sweating in the hot sun, beaten and bloody and naked save for sack loincloths. They were restrained with shackles around their ankles and wrists, attached together with heavy chains that were padlocked to a ring in the ground. The heavy manacles had worn their skin down to almost the bone, ankles, and wrists a bloody agonizing mess, their feet in similar condition from the weeks of walking barefoot through the mountains to reach this slave market.

Their captor, a swarthy man with stained teeth and a beer gut, was dressed richly and his fat fingers glittered with gold rings. He and his men had been carried here on a palanquin by Bellamy, Murphy, and the other dozen or so slaves chained beside them.

The crowds interest grew as he approached Bellamy. "This ladies and gentlemen is our main attraction." Bellamy gritted his teeth, his exhaustion conquering his rage as this fat man listed all his physical attributes in effort to sell him for a pretty penny.

"Yeah, he has a lot of muscles, but look, his back and arms are hideously scarred, he's had a whip taken to him. He's too pretty for the field, too beaten to serve and that great scar on his face ruins any chance for companionship, doesn't it?" A man from the crowd scoffed, turning away.

The fat man back peddled, clearly, he wanted to sell him as a companion but was losing his audience with this approach.

"But this one hasn't ever had the whip." He said, turning back to Murphy, who though ragged and bloody, certainly looked in a better condition than his friend.

A few people made offers, all too low for the fat man to even consider so he shooed the people away, not wanting them to crowd his stall if they weren't buying.

Throughout the day he managed to sell several other slaves, making solid profit. He was starting to wonder however how he was ever going to sell his two supposed pretty boys when a most glamorous woman approached.

The sun setting behind her lit her golden hair like a halo, the thin gold bands around her head, her arms and wrists sparkled delicately as she paused in front of Bellamy and Murphy. Her face was beautiful, her eyes a stunning blue, her lips a narrow rosebud. Her skin was a glowing ivory and she was draped in white Grecian robes, the material stark and eye-catching against the dirty ground.

A slave was carrying a large fan behind her, she was dressed in a simple white shift that clung to voluptuous body in a decidedly suggestive way. Her eyes were golden brown, her skin soft caramel, her lashes impossibly long, and her thick chestnut hair braided down her back, almost reached the ground.

Bellamy wasn't sure who was more beautiful. Beside the first woman stood an incredibly intimidating man. His skin was brown and tattooed in various places with blue ink. He had no hair on his head and was more muscular than both Bellamy and Murphy put together. He stood with his feet apart, eyes trained on the fat man, wearing naught but flowing white pants, barefoot, and holding a broad sword loosely in front of him.

Bellamy was stunned, only coming out of his trance like staring when the golden-haired woman spoke. "Jasper inspect these slaves." She ordered, her voice brisk, husky, deep but still feminine.

A young man Bellamy had previously failed to notice scurried out from behind the sword guy, he was well dressed, skinny, pale and had a wild mop of dark hair. He carried a parchment and a quill, and had a satchel hanging from his shoulder that appeared to be filled with more parchments.

He hovered close to the chained men, making notes, referring to his lists and then checking their bodies. He prodded them, opened their mouths, checked their teeth, checked their eyes, their reflexes, and performed several other irritating and degrading tests until he was satisfied.

"I believe they are suitable Wanheda." He stated, swooping a low bow to the golden-haired women he had addressed as Wanheda.

Wanheda nodded imperiously.

Jasper turned to the fat man. "Three gold pieces each." He offered, extending his hand to seal the deal.

The fat man scoffed. "Not likely, they got pretty faces and they're strong. No less than 10 gold each." He spat, oozing self-importance.

Jasper turned to Wanheda, raising an eyebrow in question.

Wanheda shook her head and held up five fingers with an impatient sigh.

Jasper turned back to their captor. "Three gold pieces each and you may keep your sorry little life."

He gestured to the guy with sword, who stepped forward menacingly. "Final offer."

"Why that's preposterous." The fait man spluttered, his eyes darting around in fear and indignation. "You can't be serious."

Wanheda raised a finger, and then, almost indiscernibly, the man with the sword had lunged forward. His sword snaked through the air so fast you saw nothing but the flash of metal in the sunlight, and watched as the fat man's robs split in half and dropped to his feet, exposing his tiny manhood.

The fat man stood in horrified shock for a second amidst jeers and laughter from the nearby crowd before dropping to his knees and gathering his split robes around him, spluttering and choking on his words in anger and terror. Jasper walked past the cowering man, dropping the six pieces of gold in front of him in disgust and stooping to collect the keys to the prisoner's padlocks.

Bellamy watched him unlock his chains, hostile, but quiet. Surely whatever this Wanheda had planned couldn't be worse than the hell she was buying them from. Murphy seemed to be thinking the same thing, he hadn't fought back or resisted at all, which was uncharacteristic for him.

Agony and hunger had a way of knocking the fight right out of you though.

They were led through the market, the pace slower than expected, Wanheda gliding, her prisoners stumbling in her wake, exhausted and more dragged by her muscled body guard than walking of their own motivation.

Their journey ended at the palace that overlooked the market. It's white marble walls ethereal in the dusk, its peaks and spires glistening gold in the last light of the day.

At the main gates, they parted ways with Wanheda and her entourage. They were taken into custody by several guards.

This was the beginning of a gruelling process.

Bellamy was separated from Murphy and taken to a brightly lit stone room. Male and female slaves swarmed around him.

First, he was unchained, stripped, and splashed with scalding hot water.

Then he was thrown into a cold bath, there he was scrubbed head to toe. His skin, hair, ears, mouth, hands, feet, everywhere, was caked with blood and dirt and sand. He was scrubbed until every inch of him was clean and his skin was rubbed raw. He was roughly dried off, his finger and toe nails were cut, as was his hair, then a stinging ointment was applied to his wounds. He was dressed in a pair of flowing white pants exactly like the sword man, and most of these slaves wore.

His hair was combed, a sweet-smelling water spritzed into it, his teeth roughly clean with a stick and a bitter white powder and a foul smelling green salve was slathered over the scar across his face.

He was then bound to a chair. The only bind was a silk rope around his waist, tied out of reach beneath the chair. He was relieved to have no ties around his wrists and ankles, the wounds there smarted terribly with every movement.

The chair was in an empty cell. It was cold. Bellamy was left alone for the first time since his arrival. He sat alone in the cold quiet for what seemed like hours, his hunger, thirst, and pain broken by the relief of sitting and the healing his body was being treated to.

There was nothing in his cell besides him and the chair, and the door in front of him. He watched the door, hopeful it would open. And lo and behold, it did.

The girl from earlier, the one fanning Wanheda, entered, carrying a bowl of water and a cotton cloth.

She was silent as she approached him. She stood before him and held the bowl to his lips, allowing him to drink, quenching his dry mouth and throat.

Bellamy gulped greedily, the water cold and sweet, the cleanest he'd ever had. The girl removed the bowl after a moment, setting it down on the floor and kneeling beside it.

She dipped the cloth into it and began wiping the foul salve off his face.

Bellamy swallowed, regaining his previously lost voice as his vocal cords had been hydrated, his dry mouth refreshed.

"What's your name?" He asked, his voice still a little cracked. "Who is Wanheda and what is this place?"

The girl glanced at him, before continuing her task. He persisted, asking her questions until she finished cleaning the slave and stood, collecting the bowl, and turning to leave. When she reached the door she paused, looking back, her deep eyes brimming with an indistinguishable emotion.

"My name is Raven." She consented, her tone neutral, her voice beautiful. "I am coming back with food. And then you go to Wanheda."

Bellamy processed this new information calmly. He was mostly just excited to eat.

True to her word the beautiful Raven did return, bringing with her a plate of meat, gravy, and bread. This she allowed Bellamy to feed himself. She stood watch as he wolfed it down, the relief of food in his belly indescribably good as he licked his plate and returned the empty vessel to Raven, sighing in satisfaction.

Raven accepted it back, her hand lingering on his fingers briefly. "Do as Wanheda says. To survive her is to please her."

"What does she want?" He asked, his question of curiosity turning to desperation as Raven dropped his hand and hurried toward the door. "Wait, why, tell me more than that!" He demanded as she let him go and hurried for the door, leaving him alone again.

His anxiousness for what was coming next dulled as he grew sleepy, his belly full and in the least pain than he'd been in in months. He began nodding off, his heavy lids shutting, and the blackness of sleep overtaking him.

"Wake up!"

Bellamy's eyes flew open, bright light flooding his vision as he jumped in surprise.

All around him were gossamer silks, white walls, gold detailing, stands of fruit and wine scattered about and in front of him a vast bed of such comfort and excess he could barely comprehend it.

The sheer wealth and beauty of the room was overwhelming, but none of it compared to Wanheda, who was sheathed in only an entirely transparent gown and was seated on the lavish bed.

She stood, the fabric of her dress concealing nothing, her supple curves, her round breasts, hard nipples, and the mound between her thighs on full display.

"What is your name and who is your god?" She asked, her deep voice quiet and commanding.

Bellamy shivered at the intensity of her presence.

"I am Bellamy Blake, and I have no god."

Wanheda smiled, gliding to him, closing the gap between them in seconds.

She reached out a delicate hand, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, too enthralled by her intoxicating touch to defend himself as she wrapped her fingers around his throat.

"Well Bellamy Blake," She breathed, her breath hot against him, her eyes filled with lust.

"I am your god now."


	2. Chapter 2

Bellamy shuddered as Wanheda wove a silken scarf behind his neck and pulled him to a standing position. "Time to worship." She informed him, her lashes lowered as she drank in his physical prowess and led him to her vast bed. She lay back, stretching luxuriously, exposing her glorious body to him unashamedly.

Bellamy swallowed hard as she parted the gossamer gown she was wearing, her bare skin golden and smooth, her open legs warm and inviting.

There was something about this goddess-like woman that made Bellamy ignore the pain he was in and his exhaustion. He climbed above her, his injured wrists shaking as they supported his weight. His hands were on the soft bed, on either side of her head, his face only inches from hers.

He hovered, breathing in the sweet scent of lilies emanating from her skin, his dark eyes lost in her blue ones. Somewhere in the back of his mind the logical part of himself was screaming, what the fuck is going on here. The rest of him was intoxicated by her beauty and getting increasingly desperate to take her right there and then.

Something about this goddess seemed to dissipate inhibitions and Bellamy was in no position to fight against the electrifying current.

Before he had even realized that he'd decided, her lips were on his, her skin was on his, their bodies pressed against one another.

Bellamy's mind was engulfed with too many sensations as the golden woman devoured his body. Pain, pleasure, ecstasy, feelings, and emotions submerged his conscious as she ravaged him. It wasn't until he was firmly inside her, she was atop him, her core encasing his manhood, that his mind caught up with the moment.

He tore at the bed sheets, desperately floundering beneath her, the gratification of his body inside hers almost too delicious to bare. His eyes were glued to her glorious form, the heave of her round breasts, her elegant hips, flat waist, her limbs long and sculpted, her entire body one intoxicating work of nature's artistry.

Soon he could no longer bare the intensity and was soon panting in the heady air as he released his pent-up seed, shooting deep inside her as she slowly, sensually, rode out his orgasm to achieve her own. Bellamy moaned as she stood, his large and now flaccid manhood sliding out of her and hitting his abdomen with a meaty thud.

Wanheda massaged her womanhood, her hands between her thighs erotically a she stimulated herself. "Worship your god Bellamy Blake." She commanded, her voice cold, her eyes flashing indignantly as he watched from beneath her.

He sat up hurriedly, fumbling about, unsure of her vague instructions and consumed by the image of above him.

Tentatively he ran his hands up her legs, her creamy thighs hot under his hands as he drew closer to her wet, dripping centre. He prodded the folds curiously, having never explored woman in this way before, especially not a god-like one. Sure, he'd pumped his penis in and out of a few girls, and squeezed a few tits, but that kind of behaviour suddenly seemed coarse and uncultured in comparison to the art of Wanheda's bed.

Using his fingers, he caressed her folds, the juicy wetness inside, and he even discovered a delicate nub near the top of her sex. She shivered when he touched it and pushed herself against his fingers, using her own to guide him to rub the nub vigorously.

His goddess was getting wet, her moisture staining his fingers as he touched and stroked her sensitive areas with keen interest. Her juices were slippery and glistened beautifully, igniting Bellamy's curiosity. He slipped a finger from inside her into his own mouth and swallowed the sweet taste of her eagerly. Without thinking he nuzzled his face into her, his tongue penetrating her energetically as he figured out a new way to worship.

Bellamy continued his adventure between Wanheda's legs, his own manhood springing back to attention thanks to how horny the task made him. Enjoying his task and focused on the growing hardness of his own genitals, he was unaware of how enraptured Wanheda was with his efforts until her floodgates opened. Her whole body convulsed and she trembled with the strength of her orgasm as a stream of her glistening juices gushed from her cavernous womanhood, drenching Bellamy in the results of his efforts.

Wanheda collapsed on the bed, rolling away from him as she did so. "Worship is over. Go." She ordered breathlessly. She was cupping her breasts and squeezing her thighs together, wriggling on the bed as though to continue feeling those last moments of delight before they faded from her nerves.

Bellamy climbed out of the bed, squeezing is erect manhood, gazing at Wanheda's prone body wistfully as he staggered to the only door he could see.

He had no memory of arriving in the room and had no idea where to go or what to do when he was out. And he was naked and sporting a throbbing hardness in his lower regions.

He opened the door and was surprised to see that it led outside and that Raven was standing in front of him. Quickly he tried to cover himself with his hands, failing miserably as she smiled ruefully.

"Follow me." She instructed, her sweet voice ringing like a bell in the bright daylight. They were in a courtyard, tone walls around them, the hot sun above them. The ground was made of white marble and was warm in the sun. Great silken white canopies hung between trees, providing shade and tables were set up with fruit and wine, all arranged on lavish gold crockery. In the ground was large pool, and Raven was gesturing for him to get in it. Relieved for the coverage he stepped into the cool clear water, it was invigorating against his hot skin and he sank into it with a sigh of contentment. The cool water soothed his hot-headed manhood and slowly he deflated in the water. The deeper end of the pool had a ledge hanging over it and this was where Raven was now sitting, cross legged, several vials lined up beside her and wooden brush in her hands.

He waded over to the beautiful girl, who was wearing white trousers like he had worn earlier and what seemed to be a white silk scarf, tightly bound across her breasts. She smiled at him and handed over the brush.

"Here, make yourself clean again." She directed him, pouring one of the vials over his head.

He did as she said, scrubbing his body, and then submerging himself in the water, rising like a clean, sculpted god of the sea, but shaking his curly hair like a dog, spraying water everywhere.

Raven grinned, amused by him and held out a soft towel. "Come on, it's time to eat."

Bellamy took the towel, drying himself as he climbed from the pool and eagerly changed into a pair of the loose white trousers she had waiting for him.

"Why do you do all this stuff?" He asked, as they walked through the courtyard, exiting into a vast, pillared corridor.

"Wanheda had very specific uses for her slaves. You will learn the routines too." She answered plainly, showing him into a warm stone room, empty except for a table piled high with food that had a wooden bench running down either side of it. These were filled with all the slaves he had seen previously and a few unfamiliar. Murphy was not at the table, Bellamy noted as sat beside Raven, his hunger suddenly gnawing at him ferociously.

His wound on the other hand seemed to have healed almost completely. That pool must have been magical. He conceded, helping himself to large plateful of food.

The soft bread, creamy cheese and sweet fruits soon filled his stomach and the spicy wine washed it down spectacularly. The slaves around him were unlike anything he'd encountered before. They were all clean, eating this good food, wearing white like him and Raven, and engaged in lively chatter. It was both the strangest and most comforting thing he'd seen in months.

"So, did you impress Wanheda?" Jasper, the one who'd inspected him at the market asked, leaning across the table interestedly.

Bellamy shrugged, eyeing him suspiciously. "What's it to you errand boy?"

Jasper held up his hands surrender, chuckling in a way that suggested this wasn't the first encounter he'd had similar to this.

"I just wondered. Apparently, the other guy that came in with you, didn't worship all that well, didn't err, take to his new religion. She had him locked in the forgiveness chamber. I was wondering if you'd suffered a similar fate, but you must have impressed her, because here you are."

Jasper finished his ramble with a broad smile, oblivious to Bellamy's horror.

"What the hell is the chamber of forgiveness?" He demanded, partially concerned for his friend, partially raging with jealousy that he had touched Wanheda as he himself had. And his mind was reeling from Jaspers insinuation that all the slave's present had also had to, impress Wanheda, suggesting that all of them had had her the way he'd had her.

"That's where Wanheda keeps those who disappoint her, but only the ones she's going to give a second chance." Raven interjected, taking Bellamy's hand in her own and squeezing it in an effort to comfort him. "Murphy will be fine."

"This place is sick." Bellamy muttered darkly, pulling his hand from Raven's, missing her hurt expression.

He didn't care about Wanheda's rules, or her routines, and he didn't intend to abide by them. No, he wouldn't rest until she was his and only his. A goddess to worship, in any way she wished to be worshipped, so long as he was the only disciple kneeling at her alter.


End file.
